


La Pistolera Y El Corazón

by HeartBranches



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: F/M, How They Met, It Gets Better, also cross-dressing, grand theft chicken, i'm taking libertiiiiiiiies, it runs in the family, sorry - Freeform, tags will update as I go, there's some mild child abuse in there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 17:49:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14502300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartBranches/pseuds/HeartBranches
Summary: Miguel Rivera is a stubborn, rebellious and driven young man. While he may have gotten his charm and his musical talent from his Great-Great Grandfather, the other part of it? Why, that was all Imelda. No, really.What follows is a story about a young woman and a young man, two young men, in fact, as different as the night and the day, a great revolution and a small one, and a love that will transcend even death herself.Also? Cross-dressing.





	La Pistolera Y El Corazón

You want a story? Ay, what kind of story? A story of heroes and villains? A war story? A story of great revolutionaries? Of rebellions and young dreamers who believe they have the power to change the world?

Oh! How about a love story? Yes? Those stories all go over well. How about it?

Yes? Ok. I can do that.

Sit down and get comfortable hijos, I can tell you a story that can do all of the above and more.

This is a story about a young woman and a young man, two young men, in fact, as different as the night and the day, a great revolution and a small one, and a love that will transcend even death herself.

It all starts so very long ago in a town called Santa Cecelia, the prettiest town you ever did see. It's nestled against the hills like a sleeping child upon a mother, and the air is heavy with fruit blossoms year-round. And if the wind hits just right, you can even smell the sea.

In the center of Mexico proper, there was turmoil. A powerful man had held a throne for too long, enriching the rich and foreign, all by breaking the backs of the poor and hardworking. This caused a storm from the north, and a storm from the south, and in the middle, they would meet, but not quite yet. For now, it just rumbled at the edges of things, like black thunderheads at the horizon, a storm so powerful you could almost taste it, metallic and sharp. But above it was still clouds and sunshine, and the birds still sang a song of peace.

Against all of this, was a little girl. Her name was Imelda.

Well, her full name was Guadalupe Maria Imelda Josefina Hinojosa y Rivera, but for now we'll call her Imelda.

Along with her great name came a great father, Jose Luis Rosario Consolación y Rosado y Hinojosa, and a very rich one at that. His father had helped bring the railroad into Oaxaca, and with it came a sizable fortune, a large house in Oaxaca and a respectable one in Mexico City proper. Jose had taken over for his father and was well-liked and respected amongst his peers. Why, he'd even married the most beautiful woman in Oaxaca, and she'd given him three healthy children, including twin sons.

What people didn't see, was that his beautiful wife despised him and had turned to laudanum to numb her days, she would appear only at parties, so paper-thin you could see the bones of her chest through her silk gowns and smell the sick-sweet smell of the opium on her breath. His sons were odd, usually off in a world of their own making, creating sketches and fantastical inventions and shut off in their room instead of out riding ponies and shooting like other young boys their age.

And there was Imelda. When you said sit she would stand. When you asked her to walk she would do so on her hands. You'd ask her to drink her milk like a lady and she'd lap it like a cat. She was as contrary as the day was long. But she had neither her Papá nor her Mamá, her Papá was often away on business and her Mamá was shut away in her rooms. It could be said that it was a cry for help from a lost, lonely little girl. Or a girl who was too smart for her own good finding a way to keep sharp mind occupied by making all the adults scramble like water thrown on chickens. Who was to say? One minute she would be fine, the next? Ay, yi yi...

The twins, Oscar and Felipe could be counted on to act as people if it was demanded of them, but Imelda? For dinner she would show up with stockings on her hands and her hair ribbons on her feet. It grew worse as she got older, and in her eleventh year, it was almost intolerable.

It was her Niñera who suggested that she be sent to the Padre in Santa Cecelia, to see if the devil could be chased from the child. Santa Cecelia was where Imelda's mother had been born, and where her Niñera had been raised. If anyone could help the child, it would be the Padre of La Catedral de La Reina del Cielo.

He was strict, firm and fair. He took in orphans from all the neighboring pueblos and educated them, taught them to read and write, and most importantly, to sing! They all sang like angelitos, voices rising to heaven and above, and many would come to their town just for that. If the Padre could take even the poorest and meanest and make them into something that would make the pope in Rome weep, then they could do something for Imeldelita.

Plus, if anything else it got her out of the house and away from all of her Father's guests.

\---

For Imelda, Santa Cecelia was love at first sight. Snuggled on the hills, her houses painted sugar-candy colors, with palm trees blowing in the early afternoon breeze. Their carriage had clattered past the open-air mercado, where the smells of cooking wafted into the open windows, promising ripe fruit, roasted corn, moles of every color imaginable and even hot chocolate.

Imelda's stomach rumbled, but her Niñera tugged her back down into her seat as they wound their way to the edge of town.

La Catedral de La Reina del Cielo cast a long shadow over the plaza before it, and Padre Paolo stood before it, severe in long black robes. Born a rich man's son in Mexico City, with a fine European education, he'd turned his back on his wealth and decided to use his education for the good of the people of Mexico. The priest went south to Oaxaca, and there he found a motley collection of niños in need of a firm hand and guiding light. They were the orphans of hacienda workers, those that had died in the fields, or had been taken by disease, flood or had the misfortune of being born out of wedlock, or to a drunk or a criminal. The Padre cared for them all. They learned their letters and their numbers. They sang. Many went into the church and took up the robes and veils as a thanks. Some took up a trade. And a few... well, may God bless and keep them, but there was only so much a man could do.

"Salutations!" the Padre called out in greeting. The sun had weathered his fair face like leather, and his thin hair danced in the breeze, showing flaking scalp underneath. Imelda tried not to stare. She knew there were oils for such things, Papá had quite the collection, but this was a man of God, and dandruff must be a concern of the flesh.

Imelda's Niñera chirped a response, bustling out and ushering her charge with her. She busied herself straightening Imelda's dress and ribbons, and Imelda couldn't help her wince. Her hair had been braided so tightly for the occasion she feared that her braids would rip themselves free of her scalp and go running down the hillside to freedom.

"Is this the little one?" The Padre asked.

Imelda wanted to respond that that was a very stupid question, as she was the smallest person there, so of course she was the little one. But then Imelda found herself looking into a pair of very blue eyes and felt the words die in her throat. The Padre put a hand on her head, and it lay there heavily, pressing her into the ground.

"--It's like she's the devil's own child," said her Niñera as Imelda pulled herself away from the Padre's gaze and finally began to pay attention, as her Niñera crossed herself as she spoke. "We've tried everything, Ay, Padre we just don't know what to do!"

"Calmase, Señorita, peace," the Padre smiled. "I'm glad you've come. I remember her mother, Socorro yes?"

"Si," her Niñera sighed.

"I remember her voice,' the Padre's eyes went distant for a moment, "The way she sang, a voice like that was a gift from God himself. For her daughter, I would gladly help." He smiled brightly, baring yellow horse's teeth.

"Muchas gracias, mi Padre," Imelda's Niñera cried, and kissed the Padre's hand. "Thanks be to God."

The Padre made the sign of the cross over Imelda's Niñera with one hand, while the other gripped Imelda's upper arm. "Go in peace, Señorita, I shall take good care of the little one. By the time you return, I'll have a proper young lady all ready for you!"

The Padre's words and tone were bright, but Imelda felt her stomach slip into the soles of her shiny leather shoes.

Her Niñera gave her one last coating of kisses, and then with a snap of the carriage-driver's whip, they were gone, and Imelda was left with the Padre. His face immediately darkened, and his fingers tightened on her shoulder.

She got her first paddling that evening. Just to chase the devil from her. Then the Padre prayed over her while her face was still wet with tears. Then she was given a rough homespun dress and sandals, as she would be dressed like the other orphans, all of her nice things would be kept in the Padre's rooms. She had to earn them back.

Then she was introduced to the rest of the children, as the daughter of Padrino Hinojosa. She could feel dozens of eyes on her, almost like they were burning her, and she wished that she could slip between the cracks in the stone floor.

"She's one of you now, so treat her as you would any other," The Padre said, with one of his yellow smiles.

Then they were ushered into the chapel for prayer. Imelda cast her eyes around, wondering where she should sit, but the children deliberately avoided her gaze. So, she found a pew near the back, carefully sitting and trying not to cry from the soreness in her legs and bottom.

There was a boy about her age, skinny as a rail, with dark shaggy hair and enormous ears that stuck out on the sides of his head like jug handles. Imelda had a sixth sense for Boys Who Were Doing Something They Shouldn't. It was well-honed by having twin brothers, and her eye kept being drawn to this boy as that Padre droned on.

Finally, she caught him sneaking pieces of what looked like orange out of his shirt and into his mouth. Imelda couldn't help but stare. Lunch had been very simple fare, just beans and rice, so where had he gotten that orange?

He finally caught her stare, and he looked back, wide-eyed.

There was a very subtle shake of his head, as if to say 'don't.'

_Don't what?_

"Señorita Hinojosa?"

Imelda's head snapped up.

"Do you have a reason why you are not paying attention?"

Imelda found she could not find her tongue, and she shook her head vigorously.

"Imeldita," the Padre's voice was a purr. "Since you are new I'm giving you a warning, but we pay attention when I talk, si?"

Imelda nodded.

"Bueno," the Padre continued.

And that was how Imelda found herself in hell.

\----

The problem with Imelda wasn't that she was stupid, on the contrary. She was the smartest girl anyone knew of her age. The problem was, Imelda knew it.

For the Padre, he had become the king of his own kingdom. The orphanage his own Porfidiado. There were nuns and the children who curried his favor, whom he gave rewards of food and solos in the choir. Gave them the gifts that the people presented to the orphanage. For the children who did not, who resisted him in any way, he punished.

He could take their solos in the choir. Remove the gifts given to them. Take the scraps left to them from their former lives, a beloved doll or a foto of a parent. Deny them food.

Or beat them.

Sometimes just a slap across the face. Or the paddle across the backside. Or, worst of all, a switch picked from the tree out in the churchyard. The number of lashings depending on how capricious the priest was feeling that day. If his stomach was agreeing with if him. If he was drunk or hungover.

Even worse, what was deemed acceptable behavior would change from day to day. Sometimes dinners would need to be in total silence to soothe his aching head. Other times he would roar that the children were too quiet and were planning something behind his back. Sometimes a girl that sang like a perfect dove the day before was a screeching demon from hell the very next day, to be beaten and denied supper.

It was best never to stick out, to never draw his eye. The Padre demanded perfection in all things, at all times. But when what was perfect changed from day to day, well, it was simply impossible to keep up.

Imelda did her best not to stick out, but by being who she was, it was like being a duck in a pen full of chickens.

"Everyone, la fresa has the notes correct, why can't you get them?" he would say one day, to the glares of the other children.

"La fresa is quiet, can't you be more like la fresa?"

Or, when he was in a bad mood:

"Ah, I see la fresa has decided to grace us with her presence this morning. I know that the rich sleep in, but the hardworking have much to do!"

"Ah-ah, that is the incorrect answer la fresa. Tch, the best school’s money can buy, but they can't put smarts into your head, can they?" This would invite giggles and scorn, and the children loved to snitch on her.

Doing everything they could to bring the Padre’s wrath down on her and away from themselves.

Imelda often thought about digging a hole in the dirt field they were allowed to play in after lessons and screaming and screaming until she had no more screams left. Instead she kept everything inside, pretending to be the perfect daughter her Papá always wanted.

Smile, Imelda. Play the part, Imelda. Keep it all inside, Imelda. No matter how much you want to howl and scream and throw your food in the Padre's leathery face and wipe that horse-smile from his mouth. Play the game the way the other children did.

She spoke when she was bidden. She was silent when she was not. She ate what was put in front of her, one spoonful of beans, one spoonful of rice and a single corn tortilla, and not a grain more. Nothing special for the rich man's daughter. Her hair she brushed, her face she washed. Her letters and numbers she recited, even though she had learned them years ago along with her brothers. She did nothing that could label her as a show-off.

For it wasn't just the Padre she had to worry about.

The children were orphans, poor and forgotten. They didn't have parents coming back for them. They had never lived in a rich house, never had plenty of food to eat, and pretty leather shoes with flowers stamped into them. Once there was sand in her food. Another night, water thrown on her sheets.

And, once, worst off all, she woke to find someone had urinated on her sandals. She took the paddle for going barefoot for that one, but never would she walk in another person's pee.

She didn't know when or, God forbid, if her parents would ever come back.

But, there was choir. Every afternoon, after lunch the children would file into the pews of the Catedral, and sit according to their range, altos here, sopranos there, a few tenors there. And little Héctorincito, with the ears like a jug and smuggled oranges in his shirt, would settle a guitar in his lap. The boy was one of Padre's miracles, he started playing the guitar as soon as it was handed to him, arms barely big enough to reach the strings. All he had to do was listen to something once, and he would be plucking away, tongue between his teeth, and before long the same tune would be flowing out of his guitar.

It was the one good thing they all had. When their voices blended together, when they sang, and it reached the rafters of the Cathedral, it was indeed like a miracle. Imelda hated to admit it, but she did love that part.

She had always loved to sing, she loved the way her voice would roll over the notes and be something so powerful. It was the only time she was ever allowed to be loud. Her father would even let her sing for his guests, absolutely delighted each time, and Imelda would feel so grown up when they would clap for her.

But that was when Papá would still come home. Before her mother took to her rooms and drew her curtains.

Before her house had become a place of silence.

Instead she would sing only loud enough to blend her voice with the choir. And do her best to be invisible the rest of the time. One day, her family would come back for her and her nightmare would end. In the afternoons, if they had been good, they were allowed a break between choir and supper, and she would climb the white-washed walls of the orphanage and watch the roads. Straining her eyes to see if she could spot her family's black carriage winding its way down the hills.

But it never did. Not when the wet of winter warmed into spring. Not when Easter came, and the children were afforded meat for dinner and a small cup of chocolate. Not when the whine and chirrup of insects at night heralded the start of summer.

And a thought began to worm its way inside Imelda's heart, that her parents had stopped wanting her. That they were never coming back.

\---

It was in those late spring/early summer months that Héctorincito began to take an odd interest in her. She would catch him watching her sometimes, head tilted, gears turning. Sometimes a hand up in front of his eyes as if he was measuring her.

The last time she caught him, she practically glared a hole in his head. He caught her gaze and had the decency to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his head. Imelda turned back in her seat, shaking hers.

She'd not told on him for sneaking food, even though there was a culture of snitching. If the other children were not going to be honorable, at least she was. She'd even caught him sneaking food on other occasions, fruits, sometimes a tamale, once a chicken leg, and her stomach rumbled at the thought. It had been so long since she'd tasted something other than beans and rice, and her dress hung off her like a sack.

A part of her wanted to jump him in the hallways, demand where he was getting food in exchange for her continued silence. Since he was never one to toady up to the Padre.

On the contrary, he would often be punished for his ridiculous stories on why he was always late to wake up in the morning. The last week's involved three goats, a monkey, and an unlikely adventure involving the donkey cart and the statue of the Virgin that had Héctor doing laps around the courtyard until choir practice.

And yet, somehow, Héctor never seemed to mind, because he always had food.

Then, one day before choir practice, he came up to her. The children were kept apart by sex, boys always on one side and girls on the other, except for play time, and even then, it was under the strict eyes of the nuns.

Héctor came up to her as she was climbing down from her usual watch (no carriage, again) rubbing his chin. He circled her, and seemed to come to a decision, because he nodded.

"What are you doing?" Imelda said, hugging her arms to herself.

"You've never snitched on me," Héctor replied.

"Whatever do you mean?" Imelda said, raising her chin a little.

"Ah, knock it off Rich Girl. We both know you saw. But you've never snitched me out. Even though there's loads of kids here who would love to see me get ratted on," he leaned back and hooked his thumbs into the tops of his trousers. Héctor had this ability to have messy hair, no matter how many times the nuns fussed at him. And it was badly in need of cutting. It made him look endearing, especially with his giant ears, and seemed to spare him the worst of the ire of the nuns. The Padre also couldn't use his usual punishments on Héctor, not if he wanted to keep his guitar player in working condition. It allowed Héctor a certain freedom the other children envied, and he often found himself alone the same way Imelda did. Singled out by their peculiarities and the way the others in power reacted to them, and not something they had done themselves.

Imelda sniffed. "Fine. Even if others don't have a sense of honor, I do."

Héctor made a face. "Honor? Even if you're starving?"

"It's all I have right now." Imelda said, raising her chin even higher. But that statement was punctuated by the rumble of her stomach. She ducked her head, embarrassed.

Héctor shook his head. "Honor sounds great and all, but it's not gonna make you full. But, since you're not a snitch. How about you and I make a deal. I need some help tonight. If you do what I say, and don't rat me out, then I'll show you where I'm getting the food. Deal?" he stuck out his hand.

Imelda looked at his dirty, callused palm, and then over her shoulder at the nun who was supposed to be guarding them. She was napping in the afternoon sun. Imelda turned back to Héctor and grasped it, giving at a squeeze. "Deal."

Héctor raised his eyebrow at her attempt at a handshake. "Meet me after lights out, by the statue of the bloody Jesus."

Imelda looked horrified.

"What? He's bleeding out of everywhere! Don't look so upset Rich Girl. Sneak out when everyone's asleep, and I'll show you how everything really works around here," Héctor promised with a waggle of his eyebrows.

That night, after the breathing of the other girls in her room evened into sleep, Imelda rolled out from under her bedcovers and grabbed her (thankfully dry) sandals. The door opened without a creek, and she wound her way down the darkened hallway. The statue Héctor had mentioned was near the back of the orphanage, and it took some navigating to get to, especially from the girl's quarters.

She was almost there when a door creaked open and light spilled into the hallway. Imelda stifled a gasp and crammed herself into a niche that contained a statue of Saint Anthony, and bit down on her fist, hoping that whoever was coming wouldn't look down. Her heart beat loudly in her chest as sandaled feet shuffled down the stone floor unsteadily, and she felt a trickle of perspiration from her armpit down her side. And then her heart stopped when she recognized the Padre.

But he didn't notice anything else, unsteady on his feet and absolutely reeking of alcohol as he was. He was singing a dirty song under his breath as he wove down the hallway and past Imelda, stopping only to pat a statue of Saint Theresa where her privates would be and chuckle naughtily to himself, before continuing on his way. Imelda waited long moments before she heard another door shut.

Slowly she released her fist from her mouth and rubbed the spot where her teeth had left indentations in the flesh of her palm. She felt sick beyond words, how could such a man claim to be a man of God and be so vulgar and awful? The people of the town loved and admired him, but if only they knew the truth of what he did when the doors were shut. Imelda had always been raised to have faith and trust in the priests, but after the Padre, she wasn't so sure she would be able to trust another man of the cloth again.

Once she felt that she was safe to move, she snuck down the hallway that was thankfully going the opposite way the Padre had gone.

Héctor was waiting for her by the statue, as promised.

"Any trouble?" he asked as Imelda slipped on her sandals.

"No," she answered quietly.

"Good," he nodded and then slipped an iron key out from under his shirt. It opened the lock on the door with a click, and he pulled the door open. Beyond them stood open space, no white-washed walls or animal pens. Just the road and the twinkling lights of Santa Cecelia and the hills beyond. Imelda felt a thrill and a chill at the same time.

"Are we going out there?" Imelda said, hugging her arms to herself.

"No, I'm opening a door I'm not supposed to and we're just going to stand here staring at it," Héctor said, rolling his eyes.

Imelda sniffed at him.

"Come on, rich girl, do you want to eat or no?" Héctor smiled and flashed a pair of dimples at her.

Years later, Imelda would be left to wonder if it was the dimples or the promise of food that lead her out on that fateful night. And it would be many, many years later before she would understand why.

He was the first person who had spoken to her like she was a human being in a long time. She would have followed him into the fires of hell itself.

Instead, Imelda would find herself on the outskirts of town, attempting to raid a henhouse.

"What are we doing?" Imelda said, as they snuck in-between the rows of housing and wooden fences.

"Shhh! keep your voice down!" Héctor hissed. "We're running an errand for my friend. If we do it, he'll pay us. And then we can get us some real food!"

"What's the errand?" Imelda whispered, as they crouched low and waited for two men, who smelled very strongly of manure, to walk by.

"We are going to snatch us a chicken," said Héctor with a devilish grin.

"From where?" Imelda craned her neck at the fencing around them, wondering if there was a field of wild chickens nearby. How did you even catch a wild chicken?

"Over there," Héctor pointed. Inside of a fenced-in yard was a pen full of fat, sleepy chickens. A yard that was attached to a house much further up the hill, the lights flickering in the distance. Which meant--

"That's stealing!" said Imelda, appalled.

"It's better us than a hawk or a stray dog," Héctor said. "At least it feeds us instead of them."

Imelda chewed this over, there _were_ a lot of chickens, surely these people wouldn't care if one went missing. Her stomach rumbled again as if to punctuate that thought. She sighed, wondering if God was ever going to forgive her for this night. "What does your friend do with the chicken?" she finally said.

"Who knows?" Héctor shrugged. "I never asked. Sells it to someone else. Mira, what matters is we get the chicken, we eat. Comprende?"

Imelda put her hands over her stomach, hoping to silence it. She nodded.

"Bueno," there was that dimpled smile again.

Imelda decided she was having an adventure. Like in her storybooks or like in the tales her Mamá had told her when she was younger and couldn't sleep. Not the stories her Niñera told her, which were usually from the bible and meant to scare her into being good. But stories about children who went in search of treasures or lost siblings or parents, who rode on the backs of dragons and through great courage and fortitude won back their brothers or their parent's love, the grace of the king, or a mountain of treasure. Stealing a chicken so she and Héctor could eat would be part of an adventure. Imelda clenched her fists to steady her beating heart.

"What do I need to do?" Imelda said.

What she needed to do, was squeeze under the gap between the fence and the ground and then open the gate so Héctor could climb in and get into the chicken yard, and then stand guard in case anyone else was coming. It was simple enough. That part of the plan went off without a hitch, and she could hear Héctor scurrying around in the darkness, trying to get his hands on one of the chickens.

What Héctor had neglected to mention, however, was the dog.

It was rather large, coming up to Imelda's shoulder and pure muscle. It approached head down, growling. Imelda turned, and instead of being frightened, she could only feel exasperated. She was hungry, tired, and full of adrenaline, and she was not about to be caught stealing by a _dog_. It reminded her of the neighbor dog, Pepe, who got too aggressive with her small brothers and who their neighbor never kept properly leashed. And there was only one way to deal with Pepe.

She slipped out of her sandal and gave it a good whack across the nose.

"No," she said, brandishing her sandal. "Bad dog. Back off."

The dog yelped in surprise, backing away from Imelda, too stunned to attack right away.

Imelda heard Héctor run up behind her. "What are you doing? Run!" he shoved her toward the gate, and Imelda scrambled for it, Héctor close behind. They were both up and out before the dog recovered and began barking.

"Run! Run!" Héctor said, and Imelda noticed he had a fat, squirmy chicken under his arm. A shout came across the hill, and Imelda needed no more encouragement, she ran as fast as her little legs would carry her, through the hills and fields of Santa Cecelia, laughing as she did.

It was the first time in her life she ever felt that free and alive. Exhilaration pumping through her veins like blood. No one to tell her to sit, to stand, to stay silent. It was a feeling she would not forget, and it was a feeling that she would need, in the years to come.

Eventually, the children were able to slow and catch their breath, laughing and grinning, the chicken clamped in Héctor's arms.

"What do we do with that?" Imelda said, when she finally regained the breath to speak.

"We have to take it to someone I know," Héctor replied, and resettled it in his arms.

The boy they sought sat aloof at the plaza, arms crossed watching the activity in front of him. He was tall for his age, stocky, and had the beginnings of a mustache across his upper lip. He had the promise of one day being very handsome, but there was a meaness in his eyes that curtailed that. Imelda hung back while Héctor ran up to him, chicken in hands.

"Ernesto!" he called in greeting. The older boy turned, catching sight of the boy and chicken, and then Imelda. He frowned.

"You had to bring her?" he said, his voice having crossed that barrier from boy to man.

"Ay, come off. She's cool. She helped out big time tonight!" Héctor held up the chicken. "You should have seen her, she whapped Garcia's dog with her shoe! Stared it right down like some sort of Pistolero," he looked over his shoulder and threw her a dimpled grin.

"Listen tonto, we don't bring girls around, comprende?" the older boy-- Ernesto snapped.

"Why not?" Imelda said, crossing her own arms. Having just risked life and limb only to have this cabrón be rude to her was starting to fray her temper.

"Because," Ernesto sniffed, looking Imelda in the eye. "Girls snitch."

"Hey!"

"She's no snitch!" Héctor adjusted his grip on the chicken. "She could have snitched on me a bunch of times, but she's been good!"

Ernesto looked between the both of them, clearly not convinced.

"We can take our chicken elsewhere," Imelda said, putting a hand on his arm.

"We can?" Héctor said, confusion plain on his face.

Ernesto snorted. "One night and she owns you, Orejón."

"Hey, no one owns me," Héctor hefted the chicken again, which was getting restless. "D'you want this thing or not?"

Ernesto sighed and dug into the bag tied at his belt, and Imelda heard the clink of coin. It and the chicken switched hands.

"Don't bring her again," Ernesto said, glaring at Imelda.

"She's not gonna snitch!' Héctor insisted.

"I'll be good!" Imelda promised.

"C'mon, I couldn't have gotten it without her!" said Héctor.

Ernesto sighed, "Fine. She gets a week. And if she snitches, you're both gone." He glared at the pair of them, and then disappeared down the alley, taking the chicken with him.

Héctor rubbed his head, watching him go. "He's not usually this bad. He just doesn't like girls too much. I mean, he likes girls. A lot," he rolled his eyes. "But he was in the orphanage with me and kissed one of the girls and she snitched on him, and they kicked him out."

Imelda looked at Héctor, wondering if her capacity to be shocked would ever die down.

Héctor shrugged a shoulder. "It's a shame, he was one of the best singers. Now he gets by with odd jobs. He was the one who looked out for me on the inside, and he still does it. I help him with stuff he's too big for, he gets me this!" Héctor held up his fist in triumph before letting Imelda see.

"5 centavos? For a chicken?" to Imelda that seemed like a rip-off, especially considering they were almost eaten by a dog.

"He's gotta find a place to sleep, we don't," Héctor said. Imelda wondered if Ernesto knew the real value of the chicken, and was being ripped off himself, or was skimming Héctor, but she didn't feel like arguing at that moment. There was something about Ernesto that she immediately didn't like, but he apparently was watching out for Héctor when no one else would.

"Anyway, let's eat!" Héctor grinned.

There were stalls still selling food this late at night, for farmers coming off the fields, for those who were drinking at the cantinas, and for hungry children like Héctor and Imelda. They had to split the 5 centavos between them, which would not get them much, but Imelda hadn't had meat in such a long time they agreed that tamales would be their best bet.

They settled on a wall near the plaza where they would not be bothered, and finally tucked into their meal.

"One day, I'm going to make it so that I never have to worry about where food is coming from. Every time I walk up to a market stall, I point to the thing I want, and I always get to eat it, because I always have the money," Héctor said. Then he noticed Imelda.

"No, don't eat it so fast!" he held out his hand. "Eat it slow, that makes you full faster, that way it feels like you're eating more."

Imelda forced herself to chew slower, even though she was so hungry that food in in her stomach felt so good it hurt.

"How do they not realize it's you buying food?" Imelda said, her mouth full of tamale. "They have to know you're at the orphanage."

Héctor shrugged. "They see me with Ernesto, and I never steal, I always pay. They must figure I miss him so I visit him, and he gives me money for food. It's all true."

"In a way," Imelda said.

"Eh. The Padre's teaching me things he's not teaching the others. Like how to read music! I'm going to become a great musician someday, I'm going to play for the world!" Héctor grinned, waving his arms in front of him. "My guitar will sing for kings and presidents, and everyone will cheer for me. I'll even find me someone who sings, and together no one will ever turn us away!"

"My Mamá sings the most beautiful songs," Imelda offered.

"Is she the one who taught you?"

"Si," Imelda kicked her legs against the wall. The town's lanterns still flickered, but above them were a million stars that arced overhead like the Virgin's own robes.

"I used to sit under her dressing table and she'd sing while getting ready to go to a party with Papá. She wears dresses made of silk, and pearls in her hair, and her perfume is from France," she cut her eyes at Héctor, looking for a glare or a face of reproach, but he had his eyes closed and he was smiling, envisioning the scene.

"What does perfume from France smell like?"

"It stinks!" Imelda giggled. "Like a bunch of flowers died."

"¡No manches! If you're going to buy a fancy perfume, it should smell good! Like. I don't know, bread!"

"Bread!" Imelda laughed.

"What? Bread smells good! I like it when people smell like bread. Okay. Maybe chocolate?"

"Chocolate is good." Imelda said, and her grin matched Héctor's.

"Where is she now?" Héctor asked.

"She's sick," Imelda said quietly.

"Does she cough a lot? My Papá used to do that. If you give her honey and tea, it helps their throat!" Héctor said.

"No," said Imelda. "She doesn't leave her room anymore. She draws all her curtains so it's always dark. And when I go to talk to her, it's like she's somewhere else..." Imelda wrung her hands. "I would try to sing to her, make her laugh, read to her. Anything that used to make her happy, but it's like her soul is gone and nothing I can do will bring it back."

"Does she drink?" Héctor asked. Imelda shrugged her shoulders. "I don't like it when my Papá drinks." Héctor continued, "Sure he gets very funny, but then he falls over and sleeps a lot. And then I have to cook us dinner and I'm always worried I'm going to burn myself. But one day he came to me and said 'Héctorincito, I'm going to change our fortune! I've got work!' but I thought it was the kind of work he always did, watching Señor Orosco's pigs or fixing Señor Martinez's fences, but then he said he would have to leave town for a while. But it meant a good house and a good life for us."

Héctor played with the hem of his shirt before he continued. "He left me with the Padre and said he'd be back in a month."

"How long ago was that?" Imelda asked.

"Two Christmases and three Easters ago."

Imelda was silent for a moment as she digested this. Then, "Where's your Mamá?"

"She died having me," Héctor said simply. "I wish I knew what she looked like. Or even her name. Papá never talked about her. It hurt him too much. I think he must of really loved her. He never even looked at anybody else. When he would drink he would say 'Mijo, be careful. Don't fall in love. The men in our family lose our hearts when we do. And it's for the rest of our lives.' and then I would tell him I was sorry for being born and taking her away from him, and he would laugh and call me stupid, and pat me on the head.

'I'm happy to have at least one of you here with me, I'm a man who is blessed!' he would say. But if he was so blessed, then why was he so sad? Why did he leave me here?" Héctor shrugged.

The two children finished their meal in silence, and then Héctor said, "How come you never sing for the Padre?"

"I don't want him noticing me,” Imelda said, watching her sandaled feet kick the wall

"That's fair. I wouldn't want him to notice me if I was bad either," Héctor shrugged

"Who says I'm bad?” Imelda snapped.

"I'm just saying, I wouldn't sing if I wasn't any good at it."

"I am good!"

"Prove it,” Héctor stuck out his chin the way Imelda did.

Imelda looked Héctor dead in the eye, and the squared her shoulders. She opened her mouth, but then drew a blank. What should she sing?

She thought of the last time she had been happy. It had been Christmas, and her Mamá had been teaching her a new song. It had come from the North, and she had wanted her to sing at her Papá's party. She had done it, in her prettiest dress and shoes, and was allowed to stay up late and have an extra cup of hot chocolate.

She sang that song for Héctor now. Singing used to make her so happy, it made the world feel right. Like she had a magic all her own, that no one could take from her. She sang like she had at that party, at the memory of that happiness. And let it melt out of her with the last note.

It was quiet after she finished, and she turned to find Héctor staring at her.

"What?" she said, crossing her arms over herself.

"That was amazing," Héctor breathed, his eyes as wide as teacup saucers.

"See, I can sing," Imelda lifted her chin.

"I stand corrected," Héctor said, flashing both dimples at her.

"You're sitting."

"I _sit_ corrected!" Héctor amended, and both children giggled.

They made their way back to the orphanage under the curtain of stars, tired but for the first time, full. Héctor produced his key again and helped them both slip back inside.

Imelda watched Héctor as he finished fumbling with the lock, wondering how she should properly thank her new friend. For that was what he was now, a friend. She never knew what do with boys, her father she'd always seen him give handshakes to his friends. And that seemed too formal. So, she did what she would normally would with her brothers. She reached out and kissed Héctor's cheek.

He reared back, disgusted. "What did you do that for?"

"Its what ladies do for gentlemen as a thank you," Imelda said, primly.

"Well, I ain't no gentleman," Héctor said, wiping his cheek with a shoulder. "How about a shake instead?" he offered his hand.

Imelda raised her eyebrow but offered her hand palm down. Héctor rolled his eyes.

"You got a lot to learn, Rich Girl," he seized it and gave it a couple pumps.

Imelda watched with interest, trying to mimic Héctor's movements. "Like this?"

"You got it," Héctor said. Then he dropped her hand and yawned. "Goodnight, Rich Girl."

Imelda smiled, "Goodnight, Héctorincito."

\----

If only, the wind sighs.

If only she knew then what she would come to know later. Oh, what would it have changed?

They were only children then. If only, if only.

**Author's Note:**

> Some geographical notes:
> 
> There is the state of Oaxaca and the city of Oaxaca. Imelda's family live in the city of Oaxaca. For now.
> 
> I listen to a lot of music when I write. Suggested songs for this chapter at CHVRCHES - Never Say Die and Los Cololites - El Conejo.
> 
> My Spanish is pretty limited, but I am very fluent in swear words. So, uh, I am very sorry if I got things wrong. (please help me) I also took some liberties with how much things cost and various and sundry minute details, because there was not a whole lot available on daily life in turn of the century Mexico that was not written by super judgey academics.


End file.
